Pain Is A Synonym For Love
by jonghyundroppedthesoap
Summary: In a world where you experience the physical pain felt by your soulmate, John and Sherlock meet under similar circumstances but with starkly different outlooks. The pain they've suffered throughout the years has taken its toll. But pain is a synonym for love. And the two have plenty to give.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was five years old when he first learnt of the soulmates. He'd been studying the different types of biota in their back garden when he felt it. A sharp yet dull pain on the cap of his right knee. He looked down curiously. There was no blood, but Sherlock felt as though he was bleeding, and had ran immediately to his Mummy who was reading a large book on the kitchen stool.

"Sherlock?" she had asked curiously, folding down the corner of the page she was on and closing the novel gently.

"Why does my knee hurt?" he questioned bluntly, hiking up his tailored shorts to show her the unmarred leg.

His Mummy had paused for a moment, studying his knee for just a second before a wide smile broke out. A shining grin which contrasted against the gentle wrinkles which had begun to appear. "It's your soulmate, Sher."

He hadn't really understood the significance of her words at the time, and had merely nodded in vague acceptance. "Okay." And then he was back outside, flipping out his Mummy's magnifying glass and jotting down the differences between the soil by the house and the soil by the well.

It was only when Sherlock started school that the word _soulmate_ began to have any meaning whatsoever. He'd watch with scornful eyes as girls and boys would sit in circles, taking turns slapping their legs to see if any others would share their pain. Sherlock thought they were fools. Harming themselves in search for something that would give them nothing.

Because what did soulmates really give? Companionship? Fulfilment? Love? Sherlock didn't care for any of them. They were superfluous. A distraction. A pain in the neck. Sherlock was tired of feeling unexplainable bouts of pain when he was least expecting it. His Mummy had told him it was _empathy_. He thought it was _masochism._

He felt this way until he was fifteen, when all of a sudden the pain in his abdomen became so bad he felt the urge to vomit. He recognised the feeling. It was the feeling of being beaten and bashed, until your eyes are hazy and you can't tell your left foot from your right. He recognised it because it was a familiar one. And Sherlock suddenly realised that although feeling the pain of his soulmate was often a nuisance, they could feel his pain too.

Sherlock made the effort from then on to sprint as fast as he could away from his tormentors. He ignored the upturn of his lips which accompanied his face when he did so.

* * *

John had always known about soulmates. He'd learnt about them at some point, of course, but his memories of the occasion were vague, and his early childhood had blurred into one elongated event. Nonetheless, soulmates had always been there, and John was already in love with his. While some hated the pain, John looked forward to it. It made John feel like he knew his soulmate, even if just a little.

At least that's what John told himself until he turned fourteen. From then, it seemed as though at least once a week his limbs were on fire, constant bursts of pain littering every inch of his skin. He'd walk home from school with tears welling in his eyes, flinching and jolting until he finally reached his front door step, when the pain would abruptly drop to a dull thrum. He should have been angry. He should have despised his soulmate for condemning him to such pain. But instead, John hurt. He hurt so badly, because he knew that somewhere in the world, there was a person suffering. His soulmate was suffering, but John couldn't do anything to help. That pain hurt more than any physical pain ever could.

Perhaps it was that desire to help people which led John to pursuing his medical degree. Day by day, John would study until his eyes drooped and he had no other option than to sleep. He studied with the hope that perhaps one day, he'd finally be able to heal his soulmate's wounds. John graduated university with high marks – perhaps not as high as he would have liked, but high enough. His residency at Barts had provided him with a position in the A&E department several years later, and in spite of not having found his soulmate yet, John was happy.

* * *

Sherlock soon found that living was _boring_. At fourteen he was smoking joints and at eighteen he was injecting himself with a seven percent cocaine solution, simply to escape the dull routine of existence. Cold cases found on the internet were repetitive, and when Sherlock had attempted to contact the police regarding current cases, they simply turned him down. Nobody wanted to listen to a school boy's opinion on murder, no matter how plausible his deductions were.

The drugs had initially been a pass time. An innocent recreational hobby that he partook in when bored. But soon enough they had led him to the wrong crowds, seeking – no, _craving_ – something more. Mycroft knew what was going on. Of course he did. He could see his young brother wasting away, yet only observed with furrowed brows.

But then Sherlock had stopped attending university, and soon after, stopped returning home.

Mycroft had found him four days later, curled up outside Southwark Station.

"You keep this up, Sherlock, and I'll kick you out of home permanently."

Sherlock stared. "You don't live there, it's not your home."

"I'm putting a stop on your payments until you clean yourself up." Mycroft continued, ignoring Sherlock's words.

Met with silence, Mycroft could only huff in exasperation before moving to leave.

"It was the sister." Sherlock spoke finally, and Mycroft whipped his head around to stare at his younger brother. "The police are investigating who pushed Peter Gibbons onto the train tracks. It was his sister." Sherlock's face twisted into a grim smile. Mycroft scrutinised him for a short moment before turning away, swinging his umbrella back and forth as his footsteps became quieter and quieter. Sherlock was alone.

Three weeks later, Sherlock was on a different side of London, deteriorating in a drug den. Mycroft had cut off his funds four days prior, leaving him with limited cash and a constant thrum in his head. Part of him was ashamed, but the days were blurring together, and one thought remained at the forefront of Sherlock's mind:

 _At least I'm not bored._

And then Mycroft was back – this time with company. Detective Inspector Lestrade, Mycroft had introduced him as. He was giving Sherlock a case.

Sherlock was returned home within the day, monitored closely by one of Mycroft's associates as the week went by. At nineteen, Sherlock was experiencing withdrawal symptoms for the first time. It briefly crossed his mind that his soulmate might be too, but there was a double murder and, well…

He had priorities.

When Sherlock was twenty four, he began to dwell on the idea of soulmates. Though he didn't care to find them, and was perfectly content with his studies, his mind palace would continue to taunt him with a stark nothingness in its far left corner. An unknown face with an unknown name and an unknown background. He still despised the thought of them, and his frustration only built when Molly Hooper began purposefully knocking her arm on bench corners and falling over at the slightest touch.

"I'm not quite sure your soulmate would appreciate that, Molly."

The girl in question had stiffened, though a spark of hope glimmered in her eyes as she stared at Sherlock. "W-Why? Are you in pain?"

Sherlock's eyes remained on his microscope, disinterested. "Hm? Me? Oh, no. My soulmate is rather… careful."

"Oh…" Molly had spoken, her voice a whisper. "Right then."

The nothingness became too much, and months later, Sherlock had relapsed. It was morphine this time, and was much easier to obtain due to his connections at Barts. Sherlock had always prided himself on not letting himself be consumed by the chemical defect that is 'love'. And he didn't. He _wasn't._

The fact that this unknown being – this _soulmate_ – was in control of so many of his thoughts infuriated him. He vaguely wondered how Mycroft did it. Remained so unattached. So cold, one might argue. Sherlock remembered a story his older brother had told him when he was young.

" _All hearts are broken. All lives end. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Imagine the pain one must experience when their soulmate is dying – no, dead. Physical pain is one thing, yes, but I'm talking about emotional pain, dear brother. Did Mummy ever tell you about our grandparents?"_

" _No."_

 _Mycroft had smiled grimly. "Our grandfather was shot in the heart. Grandmother must have been in so much pain. She probably felt like she was having a heart attack, or dying. But Sherlock, can you imagine how it must have felt to feel so much pain all at once, only to feel nothing at all within the next few seconds? Grandfather died. Grandmother had known at once, of course, but the knowledge that she could never see him again gave her the greatest pain of all."_

" _What happened to our grandmother?" Sherlock had asked, genuinely curious._

" _She died, several weeks later. Of heartbreak. Can't you see Sherlock? Attachment gets us nowhere. If she had never grown to love our grandfather, or know him, than she wouldn't have been so pained to know that he was gone."_

Sherlock was already attached to his soulmate – he knew it. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he was attached to a person who he didn't even know yet. And the morphine, that glorious temptation, was the only thing that took that attachment away.

* * *

One year into his deployment in Afghanistan, John awoke in the dead of night with a strong pain in his abdomen and the irrefutable need to vomit. But upon kneeling by the communal toilet and sticking his fingers down his throat, release would not come so easily, and he was left shivering on the bathroom tiles. Repetitive scratches of pain littered his arms as though someone was trying to tear his skin off, and John had to hold them close just to stop them shaking. Every limb ached, but John hadn't exercised any time recently, and hangovers were a thing of the past.

Realisation dawned on John like a wave – engulfing him completely and leaving him shivering with shock. Although nobody was trying to tear _his_ skin off, and although _he_ couldn't vomit, someone in the world – his soulmate – was experiencing this agony firsthand.

When the tremors and aches didn't stop after one night, John could only come to one conclusion. He'd seen it many times in patients back at the hospital, of course, and it never got easier. Drug withdrawals. And judging by his soulmate's symptoms – opioids. By day four, the pains were driving John mad, and the only thing which kept him sane was the knowledge that his soulmate was experiencing this too in an effort to better themselves.

John vowed to stay strong and be ready to hold his broken soulmate in his arms when they finally met.

 _If they finally met_.

Because three days later, when the withdrawal symptoms had stopped completely, John stopped experiencing any pain. At all. Weeks passed, and there were no more occasional jabs on his hands and wrists. John should have been relieved. After all, here was a sign that his soulmate was no longer abusing substances. But the lack of pain was odd – eerie, even – and it left John with a human sized hole in his heart.

When a month had passed with no sign of any pain, John had lost all hope. His soulmate was dead. Maybe an overdose. Maybe a murder. Either way, his soulmate was gone, and with them, John's reason to continue. Having already joined the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, John decided to simply let his life play out, putting all his effort into training and healing his fellow soldiers. He was good at it, and he genuinely enjoyed it. Soon, he found himself being promoted to Captain. He wasn't as happy as he should have been.

One year turned into two, and while John could have sworn he felt occasional bouts of pain, they weren't obvious enough to be attributed to his soulmate. Slowly but certainly, he was falling into a depression so deep, John was uncertain he'd ever be able to rise above it again.

And then there was an attack on their base, and all troops had been called to action. John remembered feeling distant, as though this raid was a small obstacle one might face every day. His focus was marginal, and he took cover and shots at the enemy with the familiarity of routine. He vaguely recalled shouting – desperate yells – before a familiar singe littered his hands. John might have fallen over, if he weren't already crouched. He stared at his hands with wide eyes, heart beating radically in his chest. They were there. His soulmate was alive and —

" _John!"_

Silence.

* * *

After a three month rehab program funded by none other than Mycroft, and a following six month ban on both the Barts' labs and his own personal experiments, Sherlock was bored witless.

" _You need to learn how to cope with being bored without the substance abuse, Sherlock."_

" _You're being ridiculous, I'm not an addict."_

 _Mycroft scoffed haughtily. "I think you'll find, Sherlock, that you are in fact what they call: an addict."_

His rehabilitation and abstention had been one of the hardest experiences of Sherlock's life, so when he was finally allowed to return to his usual experiments and crime solving, Sherlock was on cloud nine.

Perhaps he'd become a little _too_ overexcited at the prospect, because upon lighting his first Bunsen burner to record the burning time of different types of paper, Sherlock had immediately singed two fingers. He huffed indignantly, blowing on the burn before returning his gaze to the microscope before him.

That was as far as the experiment went.

Because within the next four seconds, Sherlock was collapsed on the kitchen tiles in agony. His shoulder burnt something fierce, as though the skin was being ripped apart, and Sherlock couldn't prevent the tears leaking from his tightly scrunched eyes. Curled up in a tight ball on the cold, harsh tiles, Sherlock cried. He wanted to scream. Yell for help. But the pain was too much, and he could only clutch his shoulder so tightly that the knuckles turned white. No blood seeped through his shirt and upon tedious inspection, Sherlock found no wound.

Involuntarily, he felt more tears fall and broken sobs escaped his lips. It was no longer due to the physical pain.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was scared for his soulmate.

Scared for his life.

That was how Lestrade had found him one hour later. He'd given the door a rapt knock before entering, calling Sherlock's name with the usual urgency. "Sherlock, I've got a case for you – a triple homicide!"

No reply came and Lestrade continued to the kitchen, calling again. He paused and listened and frowned at the unnerving silence. Impatience brimming, Lestrade turned the corner and moved to yell one more time, but stilled immediately at the sight before him. Sherlock was lying on the floor, body shaking as his hands gripped at his arms like a vice. His nails left half-moon dents in the skin, and Lestrade could vaguely make out the dried tear tracks which stained Sherlock's cheeks.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade rushed forward, dread seeping through his veins. His eyes darted around desperately searching for anything recreational, though papers, half full beakers, an abundance of petri dishes, and a flickering Bunsen burner were all he could find. His features contorted in confusion, hesitantly reaching a hand out to the consulting detective.

"Sherlock? Have you taken anything? Please, Sherlock, talk to me. I need to know."

Sherlock quivered, head moving indistinctively.

Lestrade was becoming desperate and shook Sherlock's lithe frame. " _Please_ , Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock choked out, eyes clenching. "No."

"Tell me what's wrong, Sherlock. I can't help you if I don't know." Lestrade pulled his phone out of his pocket, hurriedly composing a text to Mycroft as he prompted Sherlock's response.

Sherlock's eyes opened and Lestrade reeled at the influx of emotions presented in them. It was so unlike Sherlock to display any part of himself so willingly, and he almost felt guilty witnessing it. His hands weakly gestured to his left shoulder, the tremor in them too strong to do much else.

Lestrade, despite the underlying awkwardness of the situation, moved to inspect Sherlock's shoulder. He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, sliding the fabric out the way to gauge a better look.

The skin was clear. Completely unmarred. And he shouldn't have been, but he was surprised. Because if there was no wound, then that meant Sherlock had a soulmate. Lestrade flushed with shame. He'd always naturally assumed that Sherlock didn't have one. Which wasn't completely unjustified, really. Sherlock had never mentioned them – in fact, he was more distanced from social interaction and sentiment than anyone else Lestrade had met.

' _Mycroft_. _'_ His brain supplied, and Lestrade willed it to shut up.

Maybe it wasn't the fact that Sherlock had a soulmate that was so surprising. Rather, it was the fact that Sherlock looked so _broken_ experiencing the other's pain. Emotionally drained and helpless. Lestrade understood the feeling completely. Instinctively, Lestrade lifted Sherlock into a sitting position and pulled him tightly to his chest.

"They're going to be fine, Sherlock. They're going to be fine."

Sherlock, in his weak and shattered state, slumped against Lestrade. "'t hurts so much."

"I know."

"They're in so much pain. They're suffering." He whispered.

"I know. But if they're still in pain, they're still alive, Sherlock. They're going to be okay."

Lestrade never did get around to telling Sherlock about the case.


	2. Chapter 2

John sat on his bed – if it could even be called that – and stared at the bare wall opposite. Nights had never been so long. Breathing deeply through his nose, he willed the tears not to fall. Discharged from the military, John should have been happy. He was no longer surrounded by the death and injury of his friends. No longer on guard 24/7. No longer bleeding out on the battlefield. But even though he was safe, he wasn't happy.

There was something missing.

His soulmate, of course, was the obvious thing. He was a thirty one year old man who had never knowingly met his soulmate, and things were beginning to look grim. John looked down at the cane resting beside his bed, then the tremor in his left hand. A cripple. Even if by chance he _did_ meet his soulmate, there was no certainty that they would want to pursue a relationship with him.

' _I sure wouldn't.'_ A part of him commented. John sighed.

His therapist had suggested a blog – to write about everything that happened to him. It was a shame, really, because it was a good idea in theory. But nothing happened to John. And a part of him doubted anything ever would.

A few, rare times John had found himself eyeing the sig in the desk drawer of his small room. He never let himself do much else, afraid of the consequences. He knew what it was like to believe that your soulmate was dead. Beside his current conflict, it had been the darkest time of John's life. So he merely looked, wondering what it would be like to hold the gun between his hands and press the cool metal against his temple and –

 _Stop._

John buried his head into his hands. His breath came in shaky gasps and he struggled not to sob. He needed to get out of this prison – go see a movie or go for a walk. Yes – a walk. A walk sounded good.

John nodded to himself, swallowed his tears, and stood up.

A walk it was.

And that's where he had run into Mike Stamford. A close acquaintance – not quite a friend – of John's during medical school. Sooner or later, quite reluctantly on John's behalf, they had found themselves talking about living circumstances. Mike had suggested a flatmate. John nearly laughed aloud.

"C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike looked amused. "You're the second person to say that to me today."

John paused for a few moments, and found himself asking, "Who was the first?"

John never really understood why he'd asked. Perhaps it was out of boredom, or perhaps it was a final glint of hope. Nonetheless, within ten minutes he was walking with Mike Stamford (and that dreaded cane) back to Barts, which he hadn't visited since before Afghanistan. The smug grin on Mike's face did little to appease his doubts, and he vaguely wondered who the person was to provoke such an expression.

Soon enough, they were ambling through the corridors of the hospital towards the labs which John frequented in his younger days, and he marvelled at the changes. His left hand clenched and relaxed by his side. His anxiety was building as they reached their destination and John forced himself to relax.

Mike pushed open the door and John followed in tow, oblivious that this very meeting would put things in completely different perspective.

* * *

Sherlock suspected immediately. Here was an army doctor from either Afghanistan or Iraq who looked his mid-thirties. He would have been deployed only a few years ago – which would explain the sudden bout of injuries Sherlock had felt consistently until only a few months ago. He studied the man carefully and furrowed his brows. A limp? Sherlock hadn't recalled any leg injuries, but –

' _Oh.'_

Psychosomatic. Of course. It was obvious.

He briefly wondered if soulmates felt the others' pain if it was psychologically induced, but stored that thought into his mind palace for later study. For now, he wanted to gauge as much of this man as possible before he undoubtedly decided that Sherlock was too _odd_ and 'yes, it's probably best I don't move in, sorry.'

But merely deducing from his posture and attire wasn't enough. Aware of Mike's absent phone and the ever-present signal on his own, Sherlock spoke nonetheless. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

And then the man was giving him his phone, just as he'd predicted, and Sherlock's pulse began to rise subconsciously.

John Watson.

A simple name for a not-so simple man.

Sherlock liked it.

He willed some self-control and sent the message to Lestrade, studying the phone intensely while he worked.

' _Caring is not an advantage.'_ Mycroft's words rang loudly in his head and Sherlock suddenly remembered his grandmother. He thought of everyone he knew and how utterly hopeless they had become upon meeting their soulmate. Sherlock didn't like to admit it, but quite often, Mycroft was right. It really wasn't an advantage.

Sherlock tried to quell his hopes and view John as just another, plain individual. It came with much difficulty. Out of genuine curiosity, and perhaps an unconscious effort to impress John, Sherlock spoke against his own will. Like usual, his thoughts were racing faster than his mouth.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant. The most brilliant man John had ever met. Certainly, he was an obnoxious asshole – there was no doubt about that. But something about him piqued John's interest. The danger, the excitement, the _genius_. It was something he had been craving his whole life, and now here it was, wrapped up neatly in the manifestation of one man. His deductions were phenomenal. He solved a crime the police had been brooding over for months in a few hours. And best of all? He cured John's psychosomatic after knowing him for only one day.

"Quite extraordinary." Yes.

John wouldn't admit it, but he felt a pang of something when Sherlock's face shone at his words. The subtle widening of the eyes, the gentle caress of rouge against his cheeks.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off."

For the first time in weeks, he cracked a genuine smile.

John wasn't quite sure exactly _why_ he had shot the cab driver. It might have just been his soldier sense of justice. Or maybe it was because he felt indebted to Sherlock – he had cured his limp and paid for dinner, after all. But really, perhaps it was because John was greedy. He wanted more of Sherlock. Wanted to witness more of his deductions. Wanted to go racing through the streets of London with the wind in his face and a killer on the loose. And if Sherlock had died in that moment, what then?

With his hands firmly holding the sig, John considered his options. It was either he shoot the cabbie and save Sherlock, or potentially, in the future, turn it against himself. In that moment, the decision was easy.

Of course Sherlock had known it was him. John hadn't expected anything less. And when the two of them walked off to Sherlock's favourite Chinese place half an hour later, John was happy. He cracked another smile and quietly thanked Sherlock. If Sherlock knew why, he never said anything.

He might have been thinking the same.

* * *

He had been foolish to believe that John Watson was his soulmate. John Watson, who laughed with him, defended him, and killed for him. Sherlock doubted someone so _good_ could be bound to someone like him.

And he watched John like a hawk. To see if maybe, he'd spill hot tea over his hands, or knock his toe against the coffee table, or trip over his own feet. But John Watson was a very careful man. The only injuries Sherlock ever felt were when John wasn't around.

It was infuriating.

Sherlock should have listened to Mycroft from the beginning. This shred of hope regarding John was a distraction – a hindrance to his intelligence. Not to mention: inevitable disappointment. This came to Sherlock's attention cruelly upon their visit to the bank.

"This is my friend, John Watson."

"Friend?"

" _Colleague_." John had been quick to correct.

That had hurt. Sherlock pretended it didn't.

Progressions were made regarding their case of the _'The Blind Banker_ ', as John had so eloquently dubbed it, and soon enough, Sherlock was breaking into Soo Lin Yao's apartment. He was vaguely aware of the yells filtering through the mail slot, but found it difficult to focus on John's exact words. The spilled vase was too fascinating and apparently, despite John's absence, he was not alone.

Carefully, Sherlock treaded around the divider concealing the intruder. He was close, so close, and then suddenly there was a debilitating pressure on his throat and Sherlock's broken yells for John did nothing to appease the pain. He clawed desperately at the cloth constraining him, but his breaths only became shorter and shorter and shorter.

Black spots clouded his gaze.

Unconsciousness sounded more appealing by the minute.

And then the intruder was gone. Sherlock was left a pathetic, convulsing figure in the middle of the floor. He hacked and coughed and brushed down his clothes. It would be no good for John to see him like this. Not only had Sherlock been a selfish, reckless fool, but he'd gotten himself hurt in the process.

Composing himself one last time, Sherlock took a breath and exited the apartment, quite expecting John to hound him for his selfishness. What he wasn't expecting was John, hunched over the doorstep with hands grasping at his neck.

He made a startled noise as Sherlock exited and hurriedly straightened out. But Sherlock had seen it. And he had felt it too. Because in that moment, John's throat wasn't the only sore one. And unless the intruder had strangled John too, Sherlock could only come to one conclusion.

His feet itched to run – to sprint as far as possible away from John. As far as Sherlock could tell, John already hated the aspect of them being together. He was always the one to shut down Mrs Hudson's comments, quite offended that someone would even consider him being anything but heterosexual. But rather than running, Sherlock simply stared. His eyes pierced into John's for a long, silent five seconds.

A discomfort grew between them.

John looked as though he wanted to say something, but then the moment was over, and Sherlock was picking up a letter from the ground. They left the apartment side by side, an uncanny ambience between them.

Revelations had been made on Sherlock's behalf, and they would be difficult to overcome.

* * *

John had caught himself too many times. Caught himself staring, imagining and even _hoping_. But it wasn't right, and it certainly wasn't plausible.

Sherlock was a sociopath – a high functioning one. He had mentioned this multiple times, insisted it, even. He didn't care for people. He didn't have friends. And he certainly didn't have a soulmate. But yet…

" _I don't have friends, John. I've just got one."_

A shred of hope continued to linger – one that had been there the moment the two had met. John despised it. It left a sickening twist in his stomach, every time he considered: 'what if?'

A distant memory haunted him constantly. Not of war, the cabbie, or Moriarty. But of his father, shaking him back and forth against the wall and spit flying and a ring in the back of his head.

 _It was during university. He was visiting his parents for Christmas. It was just him this time – no Harry. She hadn't visited for a few years, not that John expected any less. He supposed he'd do the same, if he were gay and if his parents were homophobic._

 _In a way, John missed her. They had never really got on, but with just him and his parents, it felt strange. Uncomfortable, even._

" _We haven't heard much about your soulmate, John. Do you feel things often?"_

 _John nodded. "Yeah, every day. Little jabs and pokes. Things like that."_

 _He wasn't going to tell them about the beatings. He didn't want his parents thinking he had some sort of freak for a soulmate._

" _How cute! To think – our little Johnny."_

 _He cracked a smile. "Mum, I'm twenty. I reckon I could meet my soulmate soon, actually. Maybe at uni or something."_

" _I'm sure she'll be perfect, John. You deserve the best."_

 _And John spoke again, this time, without thinking. "Or he."_

The rest had been a blur. His comment had been an innocent one. No one really knew what gender their soulmate was until they met them. But his father hadn't been happy. Had yelled at John until his ears bled and had shook him until they rang.

John knew it was all okay. But it really wasn't.

What he was thinking about Sherlock wasn't okay.

John was attracted to women. It would be foolish to deny that. He enjoyed their company well enough and the dates were fun. Everything was nice.

But that was the problem.

John didn't want nice.

He wanted something unspeakable.

* * *

It had been a few months since Dartmoor. A few years since Sherlock had discovered John was his soulmate.

Sherlock had never been a coward. Had always faced things with a strong posture and a popped collar. But the prospect of confronting John scared Sherlock. Scared the life out of him. He'd told himself repeatedly:

'Tomorrow. I'll tell John tomorrow.'

But tomorrow always came, and Sherlock never told. It was excruciating. Perhaps it was the fact that John was already such an important part of Sherlock's life which made it so difficult. They had saved each other's lives multiple times, they bounced ideas off each other, they lived together. Heck, Sherlock was fairly certain they had even cooked together once or twice.

The truth was, Sherlock relied on John. Cared for him more than he'd ever cared for anyone. It was difficult to convey his emotions – to verbalise exactly how he felt – but in simple terms: Sherlock needed John.

And if telling John a secret he'd kept to himself for years would do anything to threaten his presence in Sherlock's life, Sherlock was desperate to keep it to himself.

But keeping secrets was more difficult than anticipated.

Particularly so when John dated a different woman every week, bringing few home for introductions. It was after a particularly straining dinner when Sherlock finally spoke, words biting.

"Don't you have a soulmate you should be thinking about?"

John looked up from his newspaper, confused. "Pardon?"

Sherlock's eyes lifted from the page he had been staring at for the past twenty minutes. "A soulmate? Surely you've heard of them."

"Ha ha." John laughed sarcastically. "No need to be a smart ass. I'm just wondering what soulmates have to do with anything."

Shrugging, Sherlock returned his gaze to his book. "Nothing. Never mind."

John's brows crinkled further. He closed his newspaper and straightened up. "No, this is bothering you. What is it?"

Sherlock mirrored him, closing his book and placing it on the armrest. "I was simply wondering why you feel the need to bring so many different dull women home. Shouldn't you be, I don't know, searching for your soulmate?"

"I _am_ , Sherlock. That doesn't mean I can't date casually on the side. I don't understand why you're so bothered with what _I_ do with _my_ soulmate."

John's voice was rising.

"Sounds rather unfaithful to me."

Really, Sherlock himself didn't understand why he was getting so worked up. John had been dating women for years, but it had never bothered him as much as it did now.

" _Unfaithful?_ " sputtered John, fist clenching by his side. "How is it unfaithful? I haven't even _met_ them."

Sherlock's jaw tightened.

John continued.

"You know, last time I checked, you have to be in a relationship first for it to count as cheating."

Breathing deeply through his nose, Sherlock remained silent.

Apparently, not the right decision.

John stood from his chair, left hand clenching and unclenching erratically by his side. "You know what, never mind. I don't even know why I'm listening to you – of all people."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

" _You!_ The 'high-functioning sociopath'. The heartless detective. Mr. 'I've got no friends', let alone a soulmate."

Sherlock stood, face blank. "That's low. Even for you."

John sighed, running a hand over his face. "I just don't understand why you're so worked up over this, Sherlock. What I do regarding my soulmate, quite frankly, has _nothing_ to do with you.

Sherlock, in loss of what to do with his hands, strode to the sofa and snatched up his violin. He avoided John's gaze and began to play. The tune was sporadic – random. An accurate representation of the situation at hand. Minutes passed and John waited patiently. Sherlock had always admired him for that quality.

"I think you'll find, John." Sherlock spat, dropping the violin onto the couch. "That it has _everything_ to do with me." His hands flailed, gesturing erratically at nothing in particular.

John shifted on the spot. "What the _hell_ are you on about?"

Sherlock stared at John, eyes flickering in an effort to gauge a reaction, deduce an emotion, _anything_. But he couldn't. His mind was racing too fast, his heart was banging too firmly against his chest.

Discomfort drowned them. John's eyes were wide and frantic. Like there was something on his mind that he couldn't quite acknowledge. " _Sherlock._ What the hell do you mean, 'this has everything to do with me.'? I can't bloody read your mind, okay? Just… Tell me what you're on about and then we can finally move on and forget—"

Sherlock lifted a hand, silencing John's tirade.

And John watched, eyes wide and laced with confusion, as Sherlock's hand moved back, as fast as lightning, towards his own face.

 _Slap._


	3. Chapter 3

John felt as though he'd been slapped.

Not in the metaphorical sense, either. His cheek stung, and based on the way Sherlock was watching him, John knew he _knew_.

"You… Slap…" He couldn't form any coherent words, and was painfully aware of the tremoring hand by his side. His breaths quickened, a combination of realisation, guilt and regret wracking his lungs. His mind raced with every word, every action, every moment they had shared together. He wondered how long Sherlock had known. Keeping John in the dark, waiting for the perfect opportunity like there was all the time in the world.

But there wasn't all the time in the world. They both knew that.

This revelation was everything. Everything John had ever wanted but everything John had ever feared. His legs threatened to give out beneath him, and he reached blindly for something to hold.

Sherlock stared at John, donning an expression John was sure embellished his own.

But he couldn't handle it. He couldn't handle the words Sherlock was sure to speak next, or the words that threatened to spill from his own mouth.

"Sherlock," he exhaled, voice shaky. "I'm sorry. I need… I need to think. This is too much."

Sherlock sunk into himself, watching with fearful eyes as John grabbed his jacket from the hook and left their flat in a hurry.

' _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.'_

For the first time in a while, Sherlock had to agree.

* * *

John's feet led him to nowhere in particular. He strode through the streets of London, every brick in the walls reminding him of a different memory. He wanted to be angry at Sherlock. Wanted to hate him for keeping him in the dark for so long. But he couldn't.

How could he be angry at someone who had given him the world?

He had eventually circled back to Regent's Park, and simply sat on a bench, staring wistfully into the distance. So much time had already been lost. So many years of naivety, foolishness and denial. So many years of lost love. John cursed Sherlock in his head. Why had he been so hesitant to tell John to begin with?

Fear of denial? Fear of change?

But John couldn't criticise him. To do so would be hypocritical. Because hadn't he been fearing the same things for years – every time the thought of pursuing a potential relationship with Sherlock invaded his mind?

John buried his head into his hands. A shaky breath escaped his lips and wisped into the foggy, London air.

This was all so difficult. So new, yet so familiar. The mere thought of what the future could hold made John's palms sweat.

So much time had already been lost. It would be of no good to lose any more.

* * *

The sound of a violin thundered dangerously. It might have been bothering Mrs Hudson. But Sherlock was oblivious to everything around him and merely continued to play.

One might have described the tune as melodramatic. Maybe as simply sad. Sherlock preferred the word 'haunting.' It was an accurate describer of how he currently felt: haunted. He was haunted by his own unanticipated actions and mostly, he was haunted by John's reaction.

They were soulmates – that much was certain now.

Shouldn't John have sparked with joy? Exclaimed how happy he was and that this 'was everything he'd ever wanted.' That's how Sherlock had imagined the scene unfolding, anyway. But dreams weren't realities. Dreams were nightmares in disguise.

Sherlock checked the time again with a huff. John had been gone for hours. Surely he was returning. Even if it was for ten minutes to collect his belongings, Sherlock had to see him again. Even if it was to say one last thing. Or to simply see John's face one last time. Smiling, preferably. Sherlock was well aware that he was expecting the worse. He had always been dramatic, and that much wasn't going to change anytime soon. But it was truly difficult to maintain any flicker of hope. Not when John had reacted the way he had.

The truth was, Sherlock wasn't well acquainted with relationships. Any sort – unless you counted what he had with Mycroft as a 'relationship'.

He was at a loss, and loss was an unfamiliar concept to Sherlock. He had no idea what to do, what to say, or what to think. All he could do was stand in the middle of the room, play his violin angrily, and hope to a higher being that John would return.

John would return.

He would.

* * *

John did return.

But it wasn't for another two hours. He entered the flat with dripping hair and a face flushed from the cold. Sherlock was curled up on the sofa and facing the wall. He didn't turn around upon hearing the door.

Sherlock was aware of John's feet treading up the staircase to his bedroom. Another door closed. He'd been correct. John was leaving for good. And Sherlock hadn't even turned around to memorise his face one last time. He shuffled around and sat up. John had to come back down at some point.

He did, mere minutes later, and his arms were empty. When he noticed Sherlock staring at him from the sofa, he froze.

"Well?" spoke Sherlock.

"Well, what?" John's voice was scarce.

"Are you leaving?" continued Sherlock. He spoke steadily, but his insides were stirring. He wasn't quite sure he wanted to know the answer.

John seemed quite scandalised at his question. "What—? No, of course I'm not leaving. _Of course_ not."

"Oh."

John's hands shifted and twisted by his side. "Did you want me to leave?"

Sherlock looked up at John. "No. I didn't."

"Right." John spoke tersely. Silence dominated. The two stared at each other from across the room; Sherlock on the sofa and John by the kitchen.

Finally, John cleared his throat. "Well, then. I'm going to make some tea. Do you want any?"

"No, thank you."

John nodded with thin lips before awkwardly shuffling into the kitchen.

He made the tea slowly, methodically. Sherlock watched him closely. An influx of discomfort invaded the flat. Neither could think of words to speak. But neither wanted the moment to end like this.

The kettle finished boiling and John poured his tea. He exited the kitchen with cup in hand and came to sit in his armchair. John took a sip and looked into the fireplace. The flames flickered.

Sherlock continued to stare at John, unsure of what to do. He didn't know where to look, or what to say. Rather, he lifted from the sofa and moved to his own armchair across from John. Closing his eyes in fear of uncanny eye contact, Sherlock propped his hands beneath his chin. It was silent. But it was far from peaceful.

John lifted his gaze to study Sherlock. But then Sherlock was opening his eyes again. Their gazes met. John froze, his teacup to his mouth.

Neither could speak.

Moments passed. Carefully, Sherlock's foot slid forward to nudge against John's. They continued to stare.

"I don't mind." John eventually whispered.

"Me neither."

Peace was vaguely restored. The silence was no longer so drowning. John took another sip and offered Sherlock a small smile. It wasn't much, but it was something.

Sherlock's gaze softened in response. An expression reserved only for John. "How was your walk?" he asked.

"Enlightening."

"Oh?" prompted Sherlock.

"Yeah…" trailed John. "I thought about a few things."

Sherlock snorted quietly. "I gathered. You _were_ gone for an awfully long time."

John appeared bashful. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Sherlock assured. "You had every reason to."

"Yeah. Look—Sherlock…"

Sherlock froze. He anticipated what came next. Rejection. A polite, 'thanks, but no, thanks.'

"I just have one question. Just one." John licked his lips, gauging Sherlock's response.

"…"

He took this as an invitation to continue. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Silence.

Eventually, Sherlock spoke. "I didn't think it could be true."

John frowned, albeit waited patiently.

"Here was John Watson. A military doctor. He'd made it very clear to me the second we met that he was 'not gay, thank you very much.' And at first, I really did suspect you were my soulmate. The injuries you had sustained, your age. Everything fit. But, then, as we became acquainted, I began to doubt it."

This was a unique experience. Sherlock spoke freely, sharing his emotions with no constraint.

"But _why_? Why didn't you believe it, Sherlock? There doesn't have to be a reason for soulmates."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "Oh, John." He sighed. "I'm the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all around obnoxious asshole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. How could it be that _you_ , John Watson, the bravest and kindest and wisest human being that I have ever had the good fortune of knowing, was bound to me?"

John sat still. He stared at Sherlock with wide, wavering eyes. How could Sherlock perceive himself as so unworthy?

"You're an idiot." he finally spoke.

Sherlock looked away. An unfamiliar emotion clouded his face. John thought it might have been shame. "How so?" he prompted.

John swallowed thickly and adjusted his foot against Sherlock's. Now, their feet were completely intertwined, pressed together firmly. "Yes, you're an unpleasant, rude, ignorant and obnoxious asshole." he began. "But you're also the most intelligent, brilliant and best man I've ever met. And I don't think I've ever told you this, but," John was having difficulty. His throat was thick and he couldn't speak. "I owe you so much. You've saved me in more ways than I thought possible."

The awkwardness between them returned, but beneath it was something deeper. Something raw. Something to be guarded.

"The consensus is, I think, that _yes_ , you shouldn't have doubted yourself and _yes_ , you should have told me sooner. But I was an idiot too, and I should have been more open with you. What's done is done, now."

"What's done is done." agreed Sherlock.

John's tea had long gone cold and he seated it beside him.

"This changes a few things, doesn't it?" asked John quietly.

"More than a few, I'd wager."

The corner of John's lips quirked into a grin.

* * *

Neither had any idea of what to do. They were seated the same as they were. An hour had passed in tense silence and it was getting late. Sherlock shifted in his seat before finally standing up. He nodded to John in goodnight and moved to retire to his bedroom. He was almost there, halfway down the hall, when John called out.

"Sherlock—Wait."

John was standing now too. His expression and posture were overcome with hesitance and his gaze flickered over Sherlock's nervously. Moments passed and John took a cautious step forward. And then another. And another. And then he was standing before Sherlock, mere centimetres separating them.

They were both painfully aware of how heavily they were breathing, lungs quaking in a suppressed fear. The silence in the room was nauseating. In that moment, Sherlock was convinced he'd become a helpless victim of vertigo.

Slowly, carefully, with his eyes locked on Sherlock's – as though to gauge his reaction – John moved forward. His arms came to softly circle Sherlock, pulling the detective to his chest. Sherlock was tense. His arms were limp by his side and his breathing had momentarily paused. But as the seconds passed, he gradually relaxed into the embrace and clutched the fabric of John's shirt between his fingers.

It was comforting – to hug someone. To know that both of you are there in that moment together. Their breaths rose and fell as one. The two of them against the rest of the world.

Sherlock smelled like tobacco and hair product. John smelled like laundry detergent and tea.

Neither had understood how familiar those scents were to them until that moment, when they intertwined and held each other for dear life. Because it was no longer just a simple hug. In that moment, John and Sherlock was holding everything together.

Every fist, every overdose, every bullet.

The pain the two had suffered over the years had become something to be shared. They no longer had to bear the burden alone.

John finally knew his soulmate. Completely – Not just a little.

And Sherlock finally understood. It wasn't _masochism_. It was _empathy._

This pain was a synonym for their love.

And the two had plenty to give.


End file.
